Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“Um.” Melody hesitated, unusual for an officer who was usually the model of efficiency. Curious, Gemma nodded towards a chair. Melody sat, looking deceptively demure in her navy skirt and white blouse. She’d already shed her suit jacket. Not even Melody could keep up her standards of crispness in this heat. “It’s about Saturday night,” she said, still not meeting Gemma’s eyes.

“Melody, what on earth are you talking about?” asked Gemma, baffled.

“I missed your call, and I never rang you back. It was a family dinner. I had my phone turned off, and then didn’t think to check messages.”

“Oh, that. I’d completely forgotten.” Gemma realized she was sweating and shrugged out of her light cotton cardigan. “You weren’t on duty, Melody. There’s no need to apologize. You have a right to personal time.”

“But if you’d needed me…”

“As it turned out, I don’t think there was anything you could have done.” She told Melody about Tim’s call and what had followed, but even as she reassured Melody, she felt a flicker of doubt. If Naz Malik had still been alive when she’d rung Melody, was there some way they might have found him in time? She shook her head, telling herself that was useless speculation, and finished her story.

“You got the little girl placed with Wesley’s mum?” said Melody. She was sitting forward, on the edge of her chair now, interest apparently having banished her momentary awkwardness. “Brilliant. How’s she doing?”

“As well as you could expect, I think. Although I’m not sure what you would expect.” Gemma thought of Charlotte as she’d left her yesterday afternoon, sobbing in Betty’s arms, and remembered how she had hated to let the child go. “She’ll be all right,” Betty had reassured her. “It’s just she’s had a long day, and she feels safe with you.”

“I’ll come see you tomorrow,” Gemma had promised Charlotte, kissing her damp, sticky cheek.

“I’ve promised to visit her again today,” she told Melody. “And I’ve got to check on my mum. She’s in hospital since yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, boss,” Melody said quickly. “Anything I can do?”

The flash of concern in Melody’s eyes made her feel a surge of panic. “No. No, it’s nothing major,” she said. “She has a little low-grade infection. Her immune system’s depressed from the chemo. And they’re putting in a port for the treatments-” She stopped, aware that she was rattling on to reassure herself rather than Melody. “I’m sure she’ll be fi-”

Her mobile rang, rescuing her. But when she saw Betty Howard’s name on the caller ID, she excused herself, feeling the same instant prickle of worry she got when one of boys’ schools rang. “Betty, hi,” she answered quickly. “Is everything all right?”

She listened for a moment, frowning, tapping a pen on her desk, then said, “Let me check into it. I’ll ring you back.”

“Is something wrong?” asked Melody when Gemma ended the call.

“I don’t know.” Gemma frowned. “Betty says she got a call from the social worker, Janice Silverman. Silverman said she contacted Charlotte’s grandmother, who told her she wanted nothing to do with Charlotte. But later this morning, Sandra’s sister, a woman named Donna Woods, rang her up. She says she wants to take Charlotte.”

“But surely that’s a good thing,” said Melody. “The child should be with family.”

“Yes, well, maybe,” Gemma said slowly. “But it depends on the family.” It occurred to her that the idea of Toby and Kit in her own sister’s care horrified her-although they wouldn’t be mistreated, they wouldn’t be cared for the way she would look after them. And a blood relationship was certainly no guarantee of love, as Kit’s experience with his grandmother had taught them all too painfully. “According to Tim, Naz and Sandra were adamant about not wanting Charlotte to have any contact with Sandra’s family,” she continued. “And we don’t know anything about this sister.”

“We?” Melody looked at her quizzically.

“The police. Social services. You know what I mean,” she added, a little exasperated.

Melody scrutinized her a bit longer, as if debating, then said, “Well, what it sounds like to me is that you don’t want to let Charlotte Malik out of your sight.”

The British Bangladeshi population has therefore described itself in several different ways during the last sixty years: Indian, Pakistani, Bengali, Bangladeshi. Nowadays the last two terms are used interchangeably. In addition, many use the term “sylheti” to describe themselves, this being the part of Bangladesh from which most British Bangladeshi families originate.

– Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron, Michael Young, The New East End

Kincaid didn’t like not having his own team on the ground from the beginning of an investigation, but as Bethnal Green had got in first, it made sense to run the incident room from Bethnal Green Police Station. And he wanted Weller whether Weller wanted him or not, so once the DI was out of court he’d have to put up with a new SIO on his patch.

He’d set up in a conference room with a computer terminal and a whiteboard, assigning an officer to man the public phone line and another to correlate the statements taken from witnesses in the park. Then he’d had the very attractive DS Singh bring him every bit of information on file regarding Naz Malik and Sandra Gilles.

He handed the Malik files to Cullen and started in on the disappearance of Sandra Gilles himself, reading with interest. People did simply vanish, of course; one only had to read the missing persons files. But in most cases, enough digging would unearth a trigger-a row, depression, financial problems-or a witness would report some small thing that gave credence to a theory of violence. But Sandra Gilles, successful artist, devoted wife, and adoring mother, just seemed to have been swallowed by the earth on that bright Sunday afternoon in May. There must have been something more.

He read through the e-mail Gemma had sent him, describing in detail the events of the weekend. Then he compared Gemma’s notes with the brief report DI Weller had filed. There was no mention in Weller’s report of Tim Cavendish’s comments about Sandra Gilles’s alleged affair with a man named Lucas Ritchie. Why?

Tim had referred to Ritchie as a club owner, but if he had mentioned its name, Gemma hadn’t caught it. Kincaid dialed Tim Cavendish on his mobile, heard the surprise in Tim’s voice when he said he had questions about the case. “Yes, I’ve got my fingers in the pie now,” he told Tim, but didn’t elaborate. “Tim, about this Lucas Ritchie bloke-did Naz tell you anything else? The name of the club?”

“No. Look, I shouldn’t have said-”

“Don’t be daft, man,” Kincaid interrupted. “You should have told Gemma on Saturday. I’ll ring you back.”

He called in Sergeant Singh. “Does the name Lucas Ritchie mean anything to you? Owns an exclusive private club in the area?”

She shook her head, but her brown eyes were alert, her expression interested. “No, sir. But I can run a search of local business records.”

He gave her a friendly smile. “Do that, why don’t you, Sergeant. And get straight back to me with the results.” He was treading carefully here. It wasn’t a good idea to openly criticize Weller to his staff, but he didn’t want any failures of communication.

“Yes, sir,” Singh answered, a slight frown creasing her smooth forehead. Pondering the implications, Kincaid thought. A bright girl. “Oh, but, sir,” she added, “I was just coming in to tell you. Dr. Kaleem, the pathologist, rang. He wanted to speak to DI Weller, but since he’s not available at the moment-”